I Died for My Daughter, Then He Sealed My Fate

So that was it. That was the reason. He’d preserved this room for their little games—maybe it thrilled him to have his mistress on the same bed we once shared, surrounded by the remnants of my life.

A wave of nausea hit me. I bolted to the bathroom and emptied everything inside me until my stomach was hollow.

My body ached from head to toe. My chest burned. I couldn’t take it any longer. I collapsed onto the cold tiles, shivering, the corners of the room blurring into blackness.

When I finally opened my eyes, sunlight was creeping through the curtains. My head was heavy, every muscle stiff and sore. And somehow… I was lying on the very bed I had shared with him.

Damian stood nearby. He said nothing. Simply watched. Calm, too calm, but there was a glimmer in his eyes I couldn’t place. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw pity. Perhaps even a trace of care. But I knew better than to trust it.

“Since it’s come to this,” I said, my voice weak as I tried to sit up, “why not just throw out my things? Let Chiara move in. Isn’t that what you both want?” I shivered. “Is this what excites you? Sleeping with her here, in my bed, surrounded by my life?”

His expression shifted instantly. Rage flickered in his eyes. “You know about Chiara?”

“I saw you yesterday… holding her hand. I saw the girl.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Yes. We have a child.”

Something inside me splintered all over again. My hands shook. “I remember when we first married,” I whispered, voice quivering. “You used to keep me awake all night… saying you couldn’t get enough of me. You said you wanted me so badly, it drove you insane.” I laughed bitterly. “You said if you could, you’d keep me inside you forever, so I’d always belong to you.”

He said nothing, merely turned his gaze away.

“The man who said that… now belongs to someone else,” I murmured. “Tell me, Damian—if you’re so happy with her, why not divorce me? Why make me live through this torment?”

Finally, he looked at me. “Divorce? The Judicial Council will announce the new appointees in a week. I can’t risk it, Clara. I can’t give them a reason to doubt me.” His voice softened. “Once this week passes, we’ll get the divorce.”

I stared at him. The pieces clicked into place. Why Chiara and her daughter never stayed here. Why my clothes remained untouched in the closet. Why he still maintained the pretense of a home. Not for love—he kept it all for appearances. Pathetic.

He hadn’t changed. Still a coward.

Chiara’s father had been his mentor. Her older brother, his friend. I remembered the day he first told me about her. “She’s my teacher’s daughter, and my friend’s sister,” he had said. “She’s young, immature. Don’t take her seriously.”

And when jealousy flared in me, when I wanted to confront her, he held me close and whispered, “Her father’s done so much for me. I won’t risk our relationship over trivial things. Trust me—I’ll stay away from her.”

I had believed him.

That night, after he left for work, I went to my daughter’s old room. The only place that still felt like mine.

When I woke that morning, a blanket was draped over me—thin, rough, but tucked around my shoulders. For a moment, I just stared, trying to place its source. Then I realized—it had to be him.

I yanked it off and threw it to the floor. It felt filthy against my skin.

My phone buzzed. A message from Mara.

“I’m trying to hurry here. You can also start looking for clues.”

Clues. I stared at the screen, my mind racing. Then I glanced toward the master bedroom—the door still ajar.

Then I heard it. Laughter. Soft, melodic, foreign to this place.

I made my way downstairs and froze.

There they were. Damian and Chiara, standing together in the kitchen, their presence filling the space like they had every right to be there.